


To Be Desired

by greenpen



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 09:39:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3115304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenpen/pseuds/greenpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn has never thought of Carrie as the jealous type. Him, sure, but he’s surprised at the swift reaction he got. He kind of likes it, likes that she feels possessive of him… in a purely selfish, alpha male kind of way. It’s nice to be desired, he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Be Desired

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Carrie/Quinn jealousy prompt. This time, Carrie's the one who's jealous.

They’re reading on the couch when his phone buzzes. Carrie has her nose buried deep in a briefing and Quinn is enthralled in some World War II history novel, the kind she always teases him about reading (“I like to be informed” is what he usually says). Neither seems to pay much attention to the sound, Quinn continuing to absentmindedly run his fingers up and down Carrie’s calf.  

It buzzes again. “It’s yours,” Carrie says finally, nudging him a little with her knee. He lifts his eyes and reaches across to the coffee table, picking up his phone. 

A few moments pass as he reads the texts silently. 

“Who is it?” Carrie asks. 

“Uh… no one,” he says, half-smiling. She narrows her eyes and finally lowers the briefing so she can see him properly. 

“Why won’t you tell me who it is?” she says, her tone a little playful. 

He opens his mouth to speak but can’t find the words. “Quinn?” she prompts.

“It’s Astrid,” he says finally.

“Oh,” she says, returning to the briefing, pulling her legs up to her chest. 

“Carrie…” he begins. 

“What?” she sighs, lowering the briefing again.

“You’re mad.”

“No, I’m not. Talk to whoever the fuck you want to talk to. I’m not your keeper, Quinn.” 

“She’s in DC the next few days and wants to have dinner with me.” 

She doesn’t respond, just rises from the couch, retrieves their two glasses from the coffee table and takes them into the kitchen. 

He can hear the noisy clang of the dishwasher opening. “I haven’t seen her for close to a year. Since Islamabad,” he says, speaking up so she can hear him over the racket she’s making. 

She emerges from the kitchen now and places the briefing on her desk next to her bag. 

“Great. Have fun.” 

“Don’t be like this, Carrie.” 

“Like what?” she says, on the verge of exasperated. “See whoever you want to. God knows I wouldn’t be asking your permission to have dinner with some guy I used to fuck either.” 

He rolls his eyes, hates being made the bad guy. 

“Look, it’s late. I have an early meeting tomorrow. I’m going to bed.” 

“Me, too,” he says, following her up the stairs, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of storming out. 

They brush their teeth in silence. 

“Good night,” Quinn says, turning off his bedside lamp. Carrie’s faced away from him. He rubs her back and pulls his lips to her ear, kissing her there. 

. . . . 

Quinn has never thought of Carrie as the jealous type. Him, sure, but he’s surprised at the swift reaction he got from a few text messages from an ex. He kind of likes it, likes that she feels possessive of him… in a purely selfish, alpha male kind of way. It’s nice to be desired, he thinks. 

Carrie’s passive aggression the next morning has been replaced by complete silence. She’s animated with Franny, reading a board book with her before she leaves, even fitting in a game of pat-a-cake. But with him, nothing. 

“I have to go,” she says, glancing at her watch. “Diane will be here at 9,” she continues, referring to the nanny. 

“I’ll see you tonight,” he says, kissing her cheek. 

“Right. Have fun at dinner,” she says, her tone a bit more biting, as she walks out the door. He thinks he must also be getting paranoid because he could have sworn the door slammed a bit more forcefully than usual when she's in a rush. 

He looks down at Franny, Cheerios laid out before her. “Your mom’s pretty angry with me,” he says, crouching down so that he’s level with her and popping a Cheerio in his mouth for good measure. She says something in gibberish as he sips his coffee. 

. . . .

She goes to bed early that night, right after bathing and feeding Franny, hoping she’ll be sleeping by the time he gets home, settling once and for all whether this really matters to her. 

But she can’t sleep. Every time she closes her eyes she sees him… with _her._ His hands all over her body like they explore hers, her fingers in his hair, his lips on her neck. She imagines him telling her the things he tells her—things she’d always believed she and _only_ she had ever heard. 

She feels nauseous, tosses and turns until she hears the door open downstairs, the rattle of keys. She notes the time on her phone: 10:44. 

She waits what seems like forever for him to come into the bedroom. She’s faced away from the door, toward the window, and observes the bounce of light and shadow as the light from the hall temporarily illuminates the room. 

He’s unusually quiet. She can hear him hanging up his jacket, removing his shirt, loosening his tie. He begins to brush his teeth and actually turns the water off for once. She wonders if he’s just sleepy and drunk. 

A few minutes later he climbs into bed with a heavy sigh. She wishes he’d showered before because he smells like cigarette smoke and whiskey. 

She closes her eyes again and instantly falls asleep. 

. . . . 

The next morning she wakes early, before 6, just as the sun’s rising, puts on a pair of shorts and one of his oversized t-shirts and her sneakers, and heads out for a run. 

It feels amazing. She hasn’t gone for a run in what feels like an eternity, much less a morning one, when the air is still cool and misty and the light is blue and grey, leftover from the night. 

She blasts Thelonious Monk through her headphones and runs all the way down Connecticut Avenue, making a zig-zag at Dupont Circle, down New Hampshire, then southeast on Pennsylvania, where she stops in front of the White House, hands on her knees, doubled over. 

The city is still quiet. Weird, even for this time of day, and that’s when she realizes it’s because it’s a Saturday. She wipes the sweat from her brow and heads back through Farragut Square. She passes a farmer’s market on the way, the smell of fresh cinnamon rolls and sourdough bread wafting through the air. 

Young families stroll through, a mother and father and little boy, probably about Franny’s age. And then she remembers, remembers where he was last night, remembers who he was with, and it’s like a bad nightmare suddenly become reality. 

It’s enough to make her lose her breath and stop, clutching her side. She tells herself it’s a cramp. 

She’s not sure why she feels this way. It makes her feel ill and low and gross. _What is wrong with me_ , she wonders. She never felt this way before. Never felt this way with Brody, whom she knew had sex with Jessica at least semi-regularly while they were sleeping together. She didn’t care with Estes, either. He had a wife. It didn’t feel like a betrayal then. 

Her sensitivity and vulnerability annoy her, make her feel weak and naive.  

When she arrives back at the house, it’s quiet, which is odd, because it’s well past 8 and Franny should be up. In the smallest, ugliest part of her brain she wishes that he had been frantic, pacing back and forth at the door, texting her madly wondering where the fuck she was. But nothing. 

Sometimes she really hated herself. 

She unlaces and removes her shoes, then walks into the kitchen and his voice startles her. “Could have left a note,” he says. She turns and he’s sitting at the table, arms folded, still in his pajamas. 

“Sorry.” 

She reaches into the refrigerator and grabs a bottle of water, gulping down half in the few moments it takes for him to rise and walk across the kitchen, standing right in front of her. 

“Maggie came by to pick up Franny a half hour ago.” 

“Oh. Good,” Carrie says, gasping for breath in between sips. 

He studies her, notes the drips of sweat on her forehead and chest, the numbers on her watch to see how far she ran. 

“How was the run?” he says slowly, marking his words. 

“Good.” 

“Well I hope you feel better,” he says. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Don’t play dumb.” 

“Answer my question.” 

He just looks at her, and for the first time in a long time, she feels truly hated, though maybe it is all in her head. 

“Just answer the fucking question,” she says. 

He lowers his chin, like a disappointed father waiting for her to confess to her misdeeds, and she wants to slap him. Suddenly her embarrassment over feeling jealous is completely gone, replaced by complete fury. He could be a real asshole sometimes. 

“I don’t know, Carrie, you don’t speak to me at all yesterday, give me the silent treatment because I had dinner with an old friend—“

“—a friend,” she interrupts, “you used to fuck.” 

“Then this morning you take off for hours, without leaving a note, a text, a call, nothing, leaving me to wonder where the fuck you were. I know you did it on purpose.” 

“Bullshit I did it on purpose! I can’t go for a run on a Saturday morning?” 

He can’t stand her when she’s like this, argumentative just for the sake of it, stubborn because she can’t stand to lose. 

He opens his mouth but, once again, he’s tongue-tied. She begins to wrap the headphones around her phone, staring at him like he’s some poor pathetic dog. 

“That’s what I thought,” she whispers, turning on her heel toward the stair. 

He lunges for her then and grabs her arm. “Don’t fucking speak to me that way,” he says hoarsely, his voice cracking at the end. “I respect you, but I can’t for the _life_ of me figure out why you can’t give me the same thing.” 

His face is about three inches from hers now, so close she can feel the heat from his breath, bitter from coffee. Her arm is sweaty and slick from the run and he looks down a moment later and releases it, wiping his hand on the back of his shirt. 

“Are you finished?” she says.

“No.” 

“I need to take a shower. And pick up Franny.” 

“We’re not through.” 

“We are.” 

She turns and heads for the stairs. “You know I bit my tongue for years— _years_ —while I watched you have your share of plenty of guys. Guys I hated. Guys I didn’t want you to be with.” 

She stops in her tracks at that, at the bottom of the stairs, and turns toward him. 

“Still I trusted you. I trusted your judgment. I still do. There always had to be a reason.” 

She inhales sharply, looking over at him. He looks smaller somehow. 

“And now why can’t you do the same thing for me?” 

It feels like a slap in the face and before she can stop herself she says, “I do trust you!” 

“Doesn’t feel that way,” he says, just barely audible. 

“It’s _her_ I don’t trust. Me!” she gestures with her hands, bringing them to her chest. 

“I remember how she was in Islamabad.” 

“Carrie…” he starts, and it makes her feel more nauseous than she already does, the amount of care and hurt in his voice. 

“You think I want to feel this way?” she starts. He walks over to her slowly, his arms crossed again. “You think I don’t want to be the carefree girlfriend who is fine with whatever you do, who’s _friends_ with your exes? Maybe I was that person once, I don’t know…”

He sighs. 

She slows down, trying to measure her words, not sound so hysterical. “I remember Islamabad. I remember the way she talked about you. She was in love with you.” 

They’re both silent for a moment as he thinks about how to respond. 

“It’s all old business with her.” 

“Maybe for you.” 

“Isn’t that all that matters?” 

She pauses, begins to fidget like she always does when she’s nervous, tapping her thumb and forefinger together in rapid rhythm. 

He closes the distance between them and encircles her hand in his own, stopping the fidgeting, feeling the fight go out of her. But she still averts his eyes, stares at her feet. “Isn’t that all that matters?” he repeats. 

She can feel herself starting to cry and hates herself for it, wishes she were somehow stronger. In any way—stronger. He brings his other hand to her chin and pulls it up toward him, forcing her to look. 

“That’s all that matters,” he says, just above a whisper. He kisses the corner of her mouth then, tentatively, because he’s still not sure if she’s ready. She doesn’t resist though, turns her head and kisses him back. 

Something in her that’s rough breaks then, a rubber band that finally gives after too much tension, and she wraps her arm around his waist, pulling his hips to hers. She palms him through his boxers and his breath hitches in his throat.

“Carrie,” he says, more a question than a statement. 

He looks down at her, because this feels wrong, like taking advantage, his opinion fortified as a single tear falls down her cheek. Or maybe it’s sweat. He can’t be sure. 

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, reaching up to kiss him, brushing the hair off his forehead. She kisses the corner of his eye then runs her hand down the back of his shirt, tracing the waistband of his boxers with the tips of her fingers.

She can feel his erection against her hip and shifts her position slightly, which makes him groan. 

He can’t wait any longer, pulls her shirt over her head, which elicits a smile from her. He tugs her shorts down—she wasn’t wearing any underwear—and she steps out of them. He backs her into the wall at the bottom of the stairs and her ponytail splays out behind her. He takes his hand to her clit and begins rubbing in small circles. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply. 

Something in him snaps, too, because a moment later, he decides this isn’t good enough, whips her around so her back is to his stomach, still stroking her. She doesn’t seem to mind, moving a hand down to his, grasping his wrist, holding it in place. He grins. 

He’s rock hard at this point, his erection bulging out of his boxer shorts, but he can hear her whimper, hear her submit to him, can hear and feel and nearly taste how badly she wants this—him—and can’t stop.

He closes whatever distance was left between them, whispers into her ear: “I’m gonna make you come.” Carrie moans rather loudly, louder than usual, and he’s so aroused he thinks he’s about to spill into his boxers like a 14-year-old. 

He increases the pressure momentarily, then stops. 

“Don’t stop,” she says breathlessly, when she realizes. “Don’t stop,” she says again. 

His hand is hovering over her clit still, her fist still holding it there, clasped firmly around his wrist. He smiles to himself when he realizes how much she needs him. 

He’s lost in this thought for longer than he realizes because suddenly she’s begun to move his fingers under hers, her own human vibrator, finishing herself off. Her orgasm rushes through her and she rests her forehead against the wall, trying to steady her breaths again. 

After a few moments she says, “why’d you stop?” 

She turns around and he’s standing there, still a little shell-shocked, standing among the pieces, his cock still hard. 

He’s speechless, she can tell, which sends a jolt of a laugh through her. 

“It’s not funny!” he says, a touch more indignant than he was going for. 

“Are you jealous?” she says with a mischievous grin, and he feels like he’s about to have a stroke. 

He leans into her then, brushes the hair from her face. 

“You want to properly fuck me?” she whispers into his ear. 

“Yes.” 

“Ok then.” 

She turns and leads him up the stairs. She’s still naked from the waist down and he takes in the view. 

They enter the bathroom and he pulls at her. “I thought the bed might be better,” he says, amused. 

“Look,” she says, pulling her ponytail out, running her hand through her hair. “I smell gross and sweaty. And you…” she pauses. “Smell like cigarettes and booze.” She turns the water on and feels it with her fingers, waiting for it to get hot. 

“Two birds. One stone,” she says. 

She turns the shower head on and closes the curtain. Soon the room fills with steam. She takes her sports bra off and tosses it on the floor. 

“You know, unless you want to wait,” she says, stepping into the shower. 

He is about half speechless, wonders how she took back control of the situation, then smiles to himself and wonders why he’s surprised. He pulls his shirt over his head and drops his boxers from his waist, then enters in behind her as she’s washing shampoo out of her hair, her eyes closed, toward the ceiling. 

He bends down and holds her waist—so slight—in his hands, kisses her just above her belly button. She runs her fingers through his hair, massages the back of his neck. He watches the water slick down her thigh and follows it, tracing with his fingertips, making her shudder. 

Suddenly she pulls him up, so he’s standing, and looks him square in the eye.

“Hey,” she starts, and her voice is weaker now, timid even. “I… I am sorry.” She swallows. “I think… I think I’ve never had something so…” her voice tapers off. “So much so that it felt like it was slipping through my fingers or something. I was… scared,” she says, nodding to herself, as if she’s realizing it for the first time, the truth just crystallizing before her. 

“I know,” is all he says and he runs his hands down her shoulders. “But I think you’re stuck with me,” he says with a grin. 

She wraps her arms around him and leans on his chest. “I’m sorry,” she says again. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._ The words just play over in her head, but they’re not enough. 

He begins to lather soap up in his hands and runs his hand down her breast bone, across her stomach and around her backside. He kneels and runs his hands up and down her thighs, scraping gently with his fingers. She almost loses her balance and he reaches a hand out behind the small of her back to catch her. He presses his lips to her hip, working his way up. Her breast, her neck, her jaw, finally her lips. He can still taste the faintest linger of salt on her mouth. 

She opens her eyes and does the same, running the soap down his body, his biceps, across his abs. He feels so strong beneath her touch, sturdy and uniform, unyielding. He’s still hard and she runs his hand down his cock, and it’s his turn to lose his balance, reaching a hand out to the tiled wall to keep from falling. She presses her entire body up against his, reaching lower to run her fingers up the inside of his thigh.

Suddenly he can wait no longer and backs her into the corner. She’s ready, too, lifts one leg onto the edge of the tub. She’s looking straight into his eyes as he thrusts into her, an even groan filling the steamy air. She’s slick and tight and for a moment they’re both incredibly still. Slowly he begins thrusting in and out in brutal, even strokes. 

He runs his hand over her breast, takes a nipple in her mouth, just grazing his teeth over the skin. 

“Fuck,” she mutters. Her look becomes unfocused, dazed even. “Qu—Quinn,” she says between sharp gasps.

He responds by thrusting harder, deeper, then picking up her raised leg, hooking it around his hip, doing the same with her other leg, her body now tightly wrapped around his. 

She drapes an arm over his shoulder as he pushes into her, trying desperately to find something, anything, to hold onto. She presses her palm onto the back of his neck, countering his pressure.

Her gasps fill the air around him, into his ear, making him crazy with lust, pulling him closer, goading him. Maybe it’s the steam, but they sound thicker, more wanting. He digs his fingers into her side and she kisses him then, maybe to distract him, maybe because she wanted to. 

He can feel himself on the verge of orgasm now—he knows only a few more strokes will do it—when she whispers something in his ear in between gasps of air. He can’t hear her, or can’t understand her, the words lost forever, dissipating like beads of steam to condense elsewhere. 

He spills inside her, moaning into her tangled hair, losing his breath, nearly slipping on the floor, as she pulls him closer, their bodies pressed together. 

He comes down, the pleasure still coursing through his veins, and begins sliding in and out of her again. She digs her palm deeper into his back, and he knows from experience she’s close now, too. She tilts her head back, and he can see her jaw clenching, dry swallows in her throat. He’s never wanted her so badly. 

She comes like this, wrapped around him, a low and quiet moan escaping her mouth, her body becoming lax and limp. They remain like this, catching their breath, reveling in the residual pleasure, for a few more moments, before she drops both her legs to the floor. 

“We should turn the water off,” she says. 

“I need to shampoo my hair,” he says. 

“Sure.” 

She steps out of the shower, leaving him in there, wraps a towel around herself as the cold air from their bedroom wafts in. Behind her she hears the intermittent splashes of someone walking in and out of the spray. 

. . . .  

They’re in the car on the way to pick up Franny, the air tense between them, both silent. Even the apologies, even the sex, haven’t mended what was broken, the trust that seems to have frayed, even if slightly. She doesn’t know what to say, but it’s palpable, this fissure. 

They pull up at a red light and he reaches over to her lap, wordlessly wrapping his fingers around hers. 

“You know I would never leave you, right?” he says. 

She looks over at him. His eyes are square on the car in front of them. 

“Yes, I know,” she says. 

“Good.” 

She wants to say something more, that she’d never leave him either, that she loves him, that he’s an amazing father to Franny, that she’s sorry, she’s so sorry. But everything just sounds too trite, or not good enough, and her throat has gone dry again. 

The moment passes as the light turns green, his attention focused elsewhere now. He keeps his hand in hers though, and she traces the skin of his thumb delicately. She sees his hair stand on end. 

She thinks about his sturdiness again, how secure she feels with him, safe. It’s an odd feeling after so many years of the opposite. 

“Thank you,” she whispers to the window, watching the trees and houses whir by. It takes him a few moments to figure out what she’s said, what she’s meant, and he feels her squeeze his hand a little harder. 

He wants to reach out and touch her face—he hopes she’s not crying—tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, but she’s holding too tightly to his hand. 

He wants to tell her thank you, too, tell her he’s sorry, tell her how amazing of a mother she is to Franny, that he can’t imagine his life without them. He’s quiet. 

He remembers the morning, remembers her whispering something in his ear. In his mind he can still hear it, though he can’t make out the words. He goes over it in his head, the moment, the way her hair smelled, the way the sounds hit his skin. He tries to listen to these phantom words, assign them meaning, give them volume. 

It never occurs to him to ask her what she said. 


End file.
